The Song Remains The Same
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: Post-Endgame. When Bucky gets hurt during a mission, Sam finds it more difficult to cope than he expects.


**A/N - I always end up coming back to these two. I feel like their TV show is going to destroy me (in a good way). **

**This is one of those stories that started as a simple idea in my head, only to expand beyond control as I tried to write it down. I hope you enjoy it and, as always, any feedback is appreciated!**

* * *

If Sam has learned anything since becoming an Avenger, it's that he hates hospitals with a burning passion.

Everything about them has unease creeping beneath his skin. The constant beeping of alarms and monitors. The endless interruptions from doctors and nurses who can do little to alleviate his anxiety. The bitter tang of antiseptic which clings to his nostrils even on the rare occasions where he's able to escape. In the past he endured those unpleasantries because he had no other choice; because Steve is as reckless as he is brave, and isolated hospital rooms had marked the end-point of many a mission.

Any hopes that Bucky would be the more careful partner have quickly been dashed, and once again Sam has had to resign himself to sitting idly by a friend's bedside. This will hardly be the last time he's relegated to that position either, much as he wishes otherwise.

Their mission had seemed straightforward on paper. Admittedly, that assessment has proven to come under the banner of 'Famous Last Words' more than once, but the briefing had been a deceptively simple one. A Hydra faction (_it is always Hydra, especially in the lingering chaos of a post-Snap world_) had been found lurking in a valley in the French Alps, with concerns having been raised regarding their intentions to mobilise. No indication was given that they were particularly powerful. Their base was a relic located five miles from the nearest village, abandoned after Hydra's initial demise in World War Two and left relatively untouched for fear of uncovering sinister traps. Their members were few and far-removed from powerful figureheads such as Pierce; most were boys who fancied themselves as revolutionaries, when all they truly wanted was to watch the world burn.

Nothing Sam hadn't seen before. Certainly not anything Bucky was a stranger to. Upon hearing the rundown, Bucky had simply closed his eyes with a weary sigh and huffed out a disbelieving, _"This again?"_

Sam had laughed, if only to hide his own fatigue, before patting his friend on the back in good-natured sympathy.

The briefing was uncomplicated. Infiltrate the base – an old, worn-down warehouse – and extract all suspects from the scene, recovering any usable data from their files in the process. Under the cover of darkness, they should have been able to remain unseen; Sam approaching from the skies, scouting the mountains for unwanted company, while Bucky led a team on the ground. Their band of SHIELD agents may have been a poor replacement for the likes of Steve and Natasha, but they were appropriately trained for the job nonetheless and Sam had grown to trust them.

The first sign that their mission was compromised came barely an hour before their arrival. Out of the blue, reports began pouring in that their assailants had been forewarned of their ambush, and had compensated by taking hostages from a local school hours earlier. Whether this was intended as a challenge or a deterrent, Sam cannot say even now. They had pushed on regardless, albeit with newfound objectives to protect the hostages at all cost, though any hope of a quiet infiltration shattered to dust when the skies erupted with gunfire.

Sam has decried the addition of the shield to his usual get-up more than once. As much as the glorified frisbee has become iconic to the title he now wears with pride, he has always questioned its practicality. On the ground, the additional protection has proven invaluable, certainly, but in flight the shield strapped to his arm has proven clunky; interfering with his control over the wings and adding extra weight he could do without.

On that cold night in the Alps, however, he'd been thanking every deity he could think of for the shield's presence. The hail of gunfire had been relentless, no matter how fluidly he evaded it, and he could hardly outrun the barrage without fleeing so far beyond range as to be rendered useless. In a split-second decision, he'd ordered his teammates to press onwards into the base itself while he apprehended the fighters on the ground. Bucky had agreed on the condition that Sam update him constantly, and Sam upheld that promise despite being forced to perform ballet in the air, raising his shield against more bullets than he could count.

As much as their infiltration seemed to stretch for hours, it can only have lasted minutes. Even now, in the calm after the storm, Sam can recall little more than frantic transmissions ringing in his ear as the operatives within the base quickly surrendered or - if they were feeling rash - were apprehended by force. The onslaught from the ground barely lasted longer than ten minutes once Sam caught his bearings. The men firing at him were trigger-happy, certainly, but hopelessly untrained. Two fell with a well-aimed throw of the shield alone, while the tactical launch of a grenade threw three more from their hiding places; their winded groans replacing the singing gunfire and sounding much sweeter to Sam's ears. The one man foolish enough to stumble to his feet barely had time to let out a war-cry before finding himself surrounded by SHIELD agents and loaded guns.

Sudden calm was hindered only by the sound of Sam's harsh breaths – his sweat defying the cool air to pour down his face. For one, unbearable moment he wondered if the last man standing would actually try his luck. He certainly seemed to be considering it. Wild eyes danced around the surrounding agents with fervour, and his gun remained caught in a clumsy grip no matter how many orders were thrown his way.

The moment passed quickly, however. Upon seeing his friends marching away from the base in heavy cuffs, the lone rebel threw his weapon to the ground with a muttered curse and sank to his knees in surrender.

Certainly not old-school Hydra by any stretch of the imagination. The lack of cyanide pills were indication enough of that. These remnants were more like boys playing at a war they couldn't understand.

That should have marked the end of it. In a fair world, the mission would have ended there, and Sam could have taken Bucky to a local bar with the intention of failing miserably at drinking games. Bucky's eventual report that he had finished scouting the base and was on his way out had promised that much.

Minutes passed with no sign of him, however. Minutes that couldn't be accounted for by the modest size of the base itself.

The calm settling over the valley dissipated rapidly as Sam took note of frantic activity among the rescued hostages – one of the teachers pointing back the way she came with hysteria in her voice – and upon meeting the gaze of one shackled prisoner, Sam could feel ice slipping into his bones as the man leered him with a shit-eating grin.

If there was any danger remaining within the base itself, Bucky had neglected to report it. Then again, he hadn't reported anything since assuring Sam that his work was done, and that was starting to feel so very long ago.

Sam barely had time to lift a finger to his earpiece before the base erupted, throwing him backwards with a rush of hot air. White light obscured his vision and lingered for an agonising moment and all he could hear was a high-pitched ringing, until panicked screams shoved themselves to the forefront of his mind. As soon as he recovered some of his bearings, he ignored the hammering of his heart and the lurch of nausea in his gut, and dutifully marched towards the base. He was vaguely aware of harsh laughter ringing over the calamity, alongside the sound of someone shouting his name, but he blocked such distractions from his mind as he pushed determinedly into the flames.

Bucky hadn't made it out. If anyone expected Sam to leave him behind, they had another thing coming.

He was grateful for his armour as fierce heat gnawed at what little exposed skin it could find. The building was still roughly intact, but only just and not – Sam could guess – for much longer. The air was thick with smoke and ash, burning his throat despite efforts to shield his face, and every step was punctuated by the clatter of falling rubble and crackling flames. More than once, he became showered in a thick layer of dust which threatened to elicit a coughing fit, but he pressed on regardless – grateful that his goggles had preserved his sight when all other senses were failing him.

Mercifully, he didn't need to wander far. As endless as the corridor seemed in its precarious state, Sam managed to stumble upon a human-shaped bundle on the ground within a matter of steps. Over the rush of noise, it took longer than it should have done for Sam to realise that the feeble whimpers emerging from the collapsed heap were not Bucky's own, and he felt his heart clench upon kneeling by his side to find a small child clutched in a protective embrace.

Bucky's foetal position had been no accident. One metal hand cradled the boy's head against his chest with surprising gentleness, while the rest of his body acted as a makeshift shield against the attacking flames. A thin layer of dust had showered over Bucky and his face was littered with tiny cuts, but the boy seemed relatively unscathed. Bucky's quick-thinking had ensured protection, even while he himself was lost in the depths of unconsciousness.

Sam's assessment quickly noted a thick gash on Bucky's forehead, the blood trickling like tears down his cheek, and he instinctively leapt into action to smother the tiny licks of flame at the back of his jacket. Pain exploded in his hands as any skin unprotected by gloves faced the fire's wrath, but he merely grit his teeth and indulged in grim satisfaction as the flames were extinguished. No doubt Sam had been too late to prevent the formation of burns, but in the urgency of the moment he'd been unable to care.

Supporting Bucky's dead weight and escorting him from the collapsing base had been difficult. Sam had refused offers of help over the comms in favour of requesting an emergency helicopter, only to be informed that one was already incoming. With as much tenderness as he could muster, he'd freed the boy from Bucky's embrace, uttering reassurances in what little French he knew, before managing to rouse his friend just fully enough to support him to his feet.

They must have made a sorry sight upon emerging into the open. For all his efforts, Sam couldn't carry Bucky so much as drag him from the wreckage; his free hand preoccupied with keeping the child close by and his wings forming a rudimentary shield against the falling rubble. Stumbling upon clean air left Sam hacking with little dignity in a fight to clear his abused lungs, and he gratefully handed over his charges as he took a moment to recover.

If retrieving his friend from the wreckage was hard, being by his side when he awoke was infinitely worse.

By some small mercy, Bucky remained unconscious as he was herded onto the helicopter and assessed none-too-gently by the waiting rescue-team. His head wound was their main concern at first, though Sam knew from watching Steve endure his fair share that Bucky would shrug it off in a matter of days.

The burns ended up being the worst of it. The medic tending to Sam's blistered hands assured him that his actions had likely saved Bucky from a worse outcome, but that provided little comfort when peeling the leather jacket from his torso revealed angry, blistered skin across much of his back and shoulder. The exposure said much about Bucky's last seconds of consciousness; hinting that he deliberately faced the worst of the blast to protect the young charge in his arms.

Sam had stayed back dutifully as the medics tended to Bucky, forcing himself to look on while smothering the anxiety twisting around his heart. Once they'd finished covering the worst of the damage with clear film as rudimentary protection, he sat silently by Bucky's side as simmering guilt and anger wrestled within his brain.

The first signs of awareness brought little relief. Bucky had already received a dose of morphine, but Sam knew well enough that his body would metabolise it before it could even glance the pain. Bitten-back groans escaping as Bucky clawed his way back to consciousness only solidified that certainty. Years of horrifying experience had taught him not to scream – though Sam would never begrudge him for it – but his failed attempts to stay silent were somehow worse. A lance struck Sam's heart at every muffled whimper or gasp, and before long the pain in glassy eyes was enough to force his hand and demand a higher dose.

Not that it helped. The threshold of morphine the medics were willing to administer was met within minutes, with only fleeting relief being offered. Sam had tried to convince them to give more, drawing on his experiences with Steve, but the risk seemed too much to bear for those who were unused to Bucky's constitution. At least until they reached hospital and any associated risks could be dealt with under secure conditions.

In retrospect, Sam can hardly blame them. There's a dearth of evidence-based research on super-soldiers as it is, let alone evidence gathered from trustworthy sources. Frustration may have reigned as he repeatedly attempted to explain Bucky's condition to one doctor after another, but as the days have gone by, his sympathy has only grown. Nobody ever quite adapted to Steve's unique demands either, and that was in various SHIELD facilities rather than unsuspecting district hospitals in the heart of the Alps.

With the help of some contacts across the pond, the doctors had eventually agreed to surrender to Steve's preferred method of 'drug the super-soldier to high heavens until the worst has passed'. Sam had felt uneasy about the idea himself. Despite Bucky eventually recovering enough awareness to consent to sedation, the situation echoed the prior tactics of shoving him in ice too closely for comfort.

He'd been berated for that line of thought as well. One look at his troubled expression had been enough for Bucky to smile through the pain and utter, "_Oh come on. As if you haven't been looking for an excuse to knock me out for a few days."_

Much as he's loath to admit it, those 'few days' have been enough to make Sam miss Bucky's company immensely. Once the initial panic died down, he'd gotten some relief out of watching his friend's bandaged chest rise and fall with every breath, but even that is no longer enough to fight off boredom. Boredom and guilt and anger and god knows what else.

Sam wishes he had an excuse to keep working, but so far none are forthcoming. All Hydra operatives were captured on the scene. The mole who sent word ahead has been identified by Maria Hill and now sits in a cell, awaiting the same fate as his friends. While the recovered data showed outlines of the faction's intentions, none of their attacks had been laid out in explicit detail, and even if they had, there are no members remaining to carry them out. Even the explosion was ultimately proven to be less sinister than it could have been; more a last-ditch attempt to destroy evidence rather than a display of firepower.

The mission is done. Perhaps out of mercy, Fury has neglected to provide Sam with another. All he can do with his time is sit idly by Bucky's bedside, indulging in a private joke by playing Marvin Gaye on repeat, and fighting off sleep which creeps at the corners of his eyes.

A shrill beeping draws him from his thoughts. It is always beeping in some form or another, whether it's the nursing alarm from a neighbouring room or a spike in Bucky's heart-rate marking the time for another dose of analgesia.

This time it's neither of those. A rapid survey of the room is enough to identify the racket as coming from the drip-line, complaining that the once-full bag of fluid is now a crinkled husk. Bucky's had so much fluid pumped into his veins that his bloodstream is likely made up entirely of saline at this point, though the current bag should mark the end of it. Once they'd overcome the initial shock of how quickly Bucky was improving, the doctors had agreed to gradually wean him off his sedation. In a matter of hours, he should be back to being an almighty pain in Sam's ass.

Gods help him, but Sam thinks he's actually excited for that moment.

Before the beeping can become insufferable, a young nurse finally comes in to check on her patient. The girl – 'Elodie' according to her name-badge – nods politely at Sam before plunging the room into blessed silence, discarding the empty fluid-bag and disconnecting the drip from Bucky's cannula. She takes a moment to jot down his vitals before acknowledging Sam with a warm smile, seemingly satisfied with her findings.

"Any sign of him waking up?" she asks.

"Not yet," Sam replies, relying on a basic knowledge of French which has, admittedly, served him well this past week. "He's a lazy bastard though so I'd give it a couple of hours."

A musical laugh escapes Elodie before she can stop it, and Sam finds himself smiling too. He's come to appreciate these tiny moments of relief.

"I'll be back to check on him at six," Elodie promises, returning Bucky's chart to its rightful place on his bedframe. "Let me know if you need any help before then."

Sam nods and gives her his word, and that assurance is all it takes for him to be left on his own once again. Basking in the newfound quiet, he rubs exhaustion from his eyes and winces as the burns on his hands scream in protest.

His own injuries could be worse. The fabric of his gloves protected him from the worst of the flames, and any damaged skin had been promptly seen to. The main grievance he has, if any, is that it's likely Bucky's extensive burns will heal long before Sam's. Every change of his dressings has only supported that notion. During this morning's rounds, the doctor's eyebrows had vanished into his hairline as he noted that the blistering had cleared, leaving only angry reddened skin in its wake. Two days prior, the attending doctor had been surprised to learn that the concerning head wound she'd been asked to review was now little more than a white scar.

Sam wonders if he'll ever stop being amused by his friends' impressive healing capabilities. So far, the answer to that is looking like a resounding 'no'.

There's little left for him to do but wait. Leafing through the channels on the TV had entertained him for ten minutes on his first day sitting vigil, until it became clear he was unable to focus on anything. Steve's second visit is due in two hours so there's the promise of company at least, assuming Bucky doesn't wake up and start ribbing him first. By the bedside, there's an ever-growing pile of science-fiction books (courtesy of Steve), cards offering well-wishes, intricate puzzles carved delicately from Vibranium (Shuri's handiwork no doubt), and children's sketches depicting Bucky and Sam in various heroic poses. One of the teachers had come in to thank Sam personally two days ago, bringing a healthy collection of drawings with her, and rifling through them had provided a sense of carefree joy that has been all-too fleeting of late.

The gifts are a sign that Bucky has more friends in the world than he likely realises. The significance of that isn't lost on Sam, though he only feels mildly guilty for skimming the pages of Steve's books out of sheer boredom.

Time is such a non-entity in this room that it's impossible to say whether ten minutes or one hour passes before Bucky starts showing signs of life. Gentle, effortless breathing starts to become more rapid; his blank, though not entirely restful, expression twists with either pain or discomfort at the prospect of waking. When a slit of grey finally emerges beneath hooded eyelids, only to vanish when Bucky cringes at the room's unrelenting brightness, Sam releases a breath that feels like it's been locked within his chest since he watched his friend go under.

"Ah, look who it is," he announces with mock cheer when grey eyes finally crawl open all the way. Even with a drug-addled haze still clinging to his bones, the glance Bucky manages to shoot him is suitably irritable. "How's it going sleeping beauty?"

Bucky ignores the question in favour of silently assessing his surroundings. His eyes dart from his bandaged chest and shoulder to the cannula resting in his arm, acknowledging the clinical neatness of his surroundings with an air of distaste. Amazingly, for someone who's no stranger to winding up in hospitals, it would seem Bucky has yet to develop an affection for them. Any hope that that will prevent further visits is likely futile, unfortunately for Sam.

"Remind me?" Bucky croaks, cringing at his own weak voice. Sam instantly reaches for the jug of water on the bedside table and fills a plastic cup, before easing it to his friend's dry lips. The relief is instant, if the way Bucky closes his eyes and gulps down every drop is any indication.

No doubt the memories will return to him in a matter of moments. Steve was always one for the confused song and dance as well, until recollection dawned as though someone had flicked a switch in his brain. Sam wishes this scenario didn't feel like such a routine at this point, though he supposes he should have resigned himself to that when he befriended people who saved the world for a living.

Then again, in the past few years he's _become_ one of those people while managing to avoid monthly trips to the hospital. That can't be put down to a lack of recklessness either. He's pulled off several stunts in the past year alone that would give Riley's ghost an aneurysm.

"Oh, the usual," Sam utters, trying to keep annoyance out of his tone. No doubt there'll be time for that later, though the temptation to let loose now is a strong one. "We fought the bad guys. We won. You assured me that you were on your way back and then... nothing. Radio silence, until the building blew up with you in it."

The memories must come flooding back, if the sudden loss of colour from Bucky's face is any indication. It takes him a while to force his gaze upwards to meet Sam's, but when he does there's a distinct shadow of apprehension which makes him appear impossibly small.

"Sam-"

"I take it you knew the building was set to explode?" Sam interrupts before he can stop himself, inwardly scolding his lack of restraint.

He needs to know though. There are several blank minutes in the timeline between Bucky declaring everything to be safe and the building erupting with him in it - a six-year old boy in his arms and fire crawling up his back. Minutes in which Sam had heard nothing, and was left to stew in his own apprehension while one of their captives grinned at his misfortune.

Bucky sighs as though resigning himself to a lecture, before confirming Sam's suspicions with a single nod.

"I spotted the charges on my way back," he admits. "I thought I had enough time to make it out but..."

Sam imagines he can fill in the gaps from there, but morbid curiosity eats at him regardless.

"But?"

"That's when I heard the boy," Bucky explains, and any shame underlining his earlier words vanishes to make way for defiance. "He managed to hide during the ambush, but I heard him crying on my way out. You saying I should have left him?"

"I'm _saying_ you should have called for back-up," Sam snaps, feeling days-old frustration come to the fore.

In the end, he supposes this is the crux of it all. The source of days of anxiety and guilt and distantly burning anger, all leading back to the knowledge that he should have been able to do _something_. He is a leader now. As fresh as that role may be, he likes to think he's well-suited to it for the most part, yet there's nothing quite like the feeling of utter helplessness to shake that belief to its very core.

"I could have helped," he continues, attempting to drown the remaining vestiges of anger to make way for reason. "At the very least I could have shielded you from the worst of it."

That much is true, no matter how deeply Bucky appears to baulk at it. Sam's wings have always doubled admirably as protection since long before he met Steve, and his new shield and improved armour have only enhanced that further.

"There wasn't time," Bucky insists, pressing on before Sam can get a word in edgeways. "I found the kid less than a minute before the place went up. If I asked for help, I'd be putting you in danger. And no offence, but you're much more vulnerable than I am."

"That doesn't mean you get to push your luck," Sam retaliates, feeling himself sit up straighter in his chair and hearing his voice rise beyond his control. Not that his efforts have any effect on Bucky, who only seems to grow more defiant himself. Well, as defiant as one can appear when confined to a hospital bed. "You've done this before you know. Like that time you jumped off a building and decided to tell me at the last possible second?"

That reminder achieves the precise opposite of the desired effect, as a proud smile pulls at Bucky's lips.

"I knew you would catch me."

"You couldn't have known that!" Sam fires back, feeling the echoes of panic thrum beneath his skin as he remembers Bucky slipping from the edge. For one horrifying second, he'd been transported back to the mission in which Riley was shot out the sky, and the hammering of his heart had persisted long after he'd grabbed Bucky by the ankle and safely returned him to solid ground.

"I trusted you then," Bucky admits with a shrug. He must glimpse Sam's unease however, for while his smile doesn't fade entirely, his expression sobers in a heartbeat. "And I knew the fall wouldn't break me."

The room collapses into silence for a moment. Sam finds his gaze drawn to a spot on the floor for no apparent reason and feels any lingering irritation drain from him to make way for exhaustion. Of course Bucky knows his limits. After spending seventy years surrounded by people constantly pushing him as far as he can go, no doubt Bucky knows precisely what it will take to shatter him completely, as well as what he's capable of surviving. Not only that, but his experiences have no doubt taught him just how easily everyone else can break.

That insight only serves to remind Sam how vulnerable he himself is in a world of super-soldiers and gods. No matter how much armour he wears and how well-trained he is, he's still just an ordinary man at the end of the day.

"Sam," Bucky says, his tone surprisingly gentle. "I wasn't trying to be a dick. If I thought there was time to call for backup without getting you hurt in the process, I'd have asked without hesitation. There just wasn't. I couldn't take that risk."

"I know," Sam concedes with a sigh. And he does, deep down. For all that he and Bucky like to push each other's buttons, there's an unspoken agreement that that stays off the battlefield, besides a few instances of teasing here and there. There would be no reason for Bucky to leave him in the dark unless it was strictly necessary; he certainly wouldn't refuse backup out of a misplaced sense of pride. Especially when a child was involved.

"I'm still pissed," Sam adds, though any attempt to be sincere falls flat as a weak smile tugs at his lips.

Bucky laughs at that, a healthy laugh that falters only when his arm comes to rest over his bandaged torso. If the pain is particularly severe, he makes no mention of it however. Then again, Sam knows Bucky would be able to conceal his agony expertly if he truly wanted to.

"I'm not in any hurry to die, don't worry," Bucky admits eventually, bringing his gaze to meet Sam's with a knowing smirk. "Death is boring. We both know that well enough."

Ice slips into Sam's chest at the reminder. Those five years of 'absence' tend to go unmentioned by those who experienced it in a desperate bid to cling to normality, but the ghosts linger at the back of his mind regardless. He knows what it feels like to die. To watch his body fade and collapse into nothingness. The precise details of what comes after are significantly less clear; whether that's because there's little worth remembering or because some unknown force refuses to grant him those memories, Sam cannot say. Waking up on the forest-floor had felt almost like emerging from a dreamless sleep, though there'd been a heavy air of fatigue as though he'd had to crawl through treacle to reach consciousness.

All he knows with any certainty is that he was dead and gone for five years, alongside half of the universe, and he imagines that knowledge will haunt him for what remains of this second outing. Despite the danger that follows the title of 'Captain America' wherever it goes, Sam knows he's willing to do anything to achieve the long, healthy life that Steve has created for himself.

Ensuring the same for Bucky would be an added bonus, no matter how difficult a task that promises to be.

"So, what's my prognosis doc?" Bucky asks, glaring at the white bandages encircling his torso with an expression that suggests he'll happily tear them off the instant they're no longer needed. For the sake of their sanity, Sam hopes that moment comes sooner rather than later.

"Awful," he deadpans, schooling his expression into one of perfect neutrality. "Third-degree burns across ninety-percent of your body. Lifelong scarring. Doctors are saying you'll end up even more hideous than usual."

Sam's wit is rewarded with a dark glower that threatens to send him into fitful giggles if he isn't careful. His amusement only incenses Bucky further, albeit playfully, and he no longer bothers holding back his laugh when an elegant metal hand extends the middle finger at him.

"You'll be fine," he assures Bucky, once the humour has died down. "The worst of it's already over. The skin on your back might be tender for a couple of weeks, but there should be no scarring beyond that. One of the perks of being a freak of nature."

There's no malice intended by those words, and Bucky must sense as much if his weak smile is any indication. His expression sobers quickly however – his eyes transported somewhere Sam cannot reach – and when he returns to the present, there's naked worry buried beneath feigned calm.

"The boy?" he asks, and for the first time in their conversation Bucky seems genuinely fearful.

"You saved him," Sam says gently, watching as relief forces Bucky to deflate against the sheets. "They kept him in for observation for a while. I think they were worried about smoke inhalation more than anything else. But he's doing great. Last I checked, he was bragging to his sister about being saved by the Winter Soldier."

A disbelieving smile tugs at Bucky's lips, and a laugh quiet as a breath of air escapes him as his eyes wander elsewhere. Even now, months after his official pardon and his decision to become Sam's partner in crime, Bucky still struggles to believe that the image of the 'Winter Soldier' has become a heroic one. The name itself is barely used in conversation anymore - much as he'd likely deny it, Bucky seems to prefer Shuri's fond moniker of 'White Wolf' – but it remains associated with Bucky in the same way that Steve will always carry the weight of 'Captain America'. Both Steve and Sam have spent years reminding Bucky that the terrible deeds performed under the title were not his own, albeit with varying degrees of success.

Moments like this always seem to help, however. How terrifying can the Winter Soldier truly be if a child looks at him and sees only a hero?

"Steve got here yesterday," Sam says, gesturing to the gifts Steve had brought with him. Bucky's eyes widen slightly upon noticing the impressive pile, though he schools his expression quickly as though afraid Sam will mock him. "I think he spent most of my initial phone-call booking his flight. He'll be back around five. Maybe earlier if I let him know you're awake."

"That'll be nice," Bucky says absently, eyes still fixed to the gifts on the bedside table.

At a guess, Sam imagines it's the drawings that have consumed his attention. His eyes seem to be drawn to a sketch of the Falcon in flight – goggles and all – with one gloved hand wrapped around the Winter Soldier's arm as they soar through a scribbled blue sky. The details may be clumsy, but Sam thinks this unknown six-year-old has captured their essence masterfully all the same.

Silence settles over them again, albeit not unpleasantly. When his back finally protests against his chair's lack of support, Sam stretches with a yawn that only amplifies his exhaustion. He could probably count the hours of sleep he's had this week on the fingers of one hand, though seeing Bucky awake and healing should be enough to double that figure when he next retires to bed.

It strikes him that he should probably fetch Elodie or one of the young doctors on the ward and inform them that Bucky's awake. No doubt he'll receive a stern talking-to given that it's taken him so long to get around to it.

"I can leave you alone if you want," he offers, though now that he voices the idea aloud, his body traitorously desires to stay right where it is. The suggestion is enough to snap Bucky from an exhausted stupor, and it hits Sam that he's not the only one in need of a good rest.

"No, I-" Bucky frowns, brows furrowed in concentration as words fail him for a moment.

"I just wanted to thank you. For getting me out."

"Don't mention it," Sam says with surprising ease given the gravity that threatened to crush him at the start of their conversation. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, freeing his soul and offering peace he thought was lost upon seeing the warehouse erupt into flame. "You would have done the same for me."

The dismissal isn't enough to wipe the frown from Bucky's face. That could very well be due to exhaustion or pain or both, though Sam would like to think he knows the man well enough to surmise that his continued unease is deeper than that. It's not that his words were incorrect per se – Bucky's saved Sam's neck more times than he can count – but rather that they aren't enough. With a sigh, Sam rubs his eyes and lets the weight of his exhaustion settle upon him, before bringing his gaze up to meet Bucky's once more.

"I mean it Buck," he continues, Steve's old nickname rolling off his tongue as easily as breathing. It sounds strange coming from Sam's mouth, but it captures Bucky's attention more effectively than a teasing insult ever could. "You're my friend. Hate to admit it, but I'd rather not lose you."

_I've already lost one friend _remains unspoken, though Bucky seems to hear it in the silence; his eyes softening in a heartbeat, de-aging him by several years. He's heard Sam's stories about Riley. He's even watched him fall apart at the memories once or twice.

"Is this you being nice to me?" Bucky asks eventually, sporting a sly smirk and single raised eyebrow, giving him the no-doubt unintentional appearance of a cartoon villain. A disbelieving laugh threatens to leave Sam as he contemplates the ridiculous notion that he was ever frightened of this man.

"Don't get used to it," he deadpans, trying to evoke the presence of a stern badass and utterly failing when Bucky's warm chuckle melts his resolve.

Any notions of leaving in search of his own rest abandon him. In spite of the many hours spent stewing in suffocating anxiety within these four walls, Sam finds he's perfectly content to just sit and keep Bucky company until Steve's arrival. No doubt he'll stay for that as well, though the conversation seems doomed to become a half-hearted lecture, counteracted with accusations of hypocrisy before devolving into grandpa jokes.

Most of the latter will no doubt come from Steve himself. Sam has learned over time that there's no wisecrack he can come up with that Steve hasn't already heard. It will be good to have a moment with just the three of them again though, especially now that one of their trio isn't comatose. With Sam and Bucky always on the move and Steve having settled down, such opportunities to meet are far and few between, but when they do arise, they are infinitely more valuable than gold.

Beyond that, Sam supposes they're reliant on doctors' orders. At a guess, Bucky will be free to leave within the week. Perhaps even earlier if his puppy-dog eyes are powerful enough. As is tradition following an injury, they'll be granted a few days to recuperate and gather their bearings, before a new mission emerges from the woodwork. There's always another assignment after all. Especially in the aftermath of the planet losing - and subsequently regaining - half of its population.

Sam's keen to go home. Now that the baggage of the last mission has been shed, all he wants to do is fly back across the pond and return to work. Bucky will be back by his side, good as new and ready to annoy the living daylights out of him, and they'll slowly but surely settle into the comfort of normality.

Until the next hospital visit, of course.

With any luck, Sam will have a long time to wait before that happens.


End file.
